Midnight Trip on the Ethereal Craft
by TheZombieJuice
Summary: Not much is left of Yorick's brain, causing his mind to wander as he carts his various guests across the Conqueror's Sea on his way to the Shadow Isles. "Embrace the inevitable."


_Swoosh. Swoosh. Swoosh._

Yorick absentmindedly watched the ripples left by his paddle roll across the surface of the black water. The image of a perfectly round and yellow moon was briefly distorted before rushing back to reassert itself. Yorick's brain had begun to go over the years, and as a result he tended to space out quite frequently. Not that he needed a brain, of course, but occasionally it helped to keep his thoughts in order.

It was on trips like these especially, across the Conquerer's Sea, that his thoughts became increasingly scatterbrained while he dipped his oars below the surface. The boat was guided by ethereal forces, and glided smoothly across the water regardless of Yorick's paddling. But he figured that if he still had feeling in his hands, he would rather enjoy the feel of it anyway.

The purpose of these countless ventures back and forth were to cart souls from the mainland to the Shadow Isles, where they could be put to work. Karthus was never satisfied with Yorick's haul, however, even if the Gravedigger was not responsible for what souls were collected. It would always be, _"We need more children, Gravedigger! Chil-dren!" _

Yorick made sure to relay these commands to Thresh every time, but if the Chain Warden was even paying attention in the first place these iterations would likely earn him a lash of chains across the face for his trouble. It wasn't like he could feel it anyway, though. _"It's always _children _with that guy! Does he have any idea how fast those little brats can run?" _Thresh would complain.

Yorick caught his mind wandering again. On this dreary night, he had a special guest in his boat. It was a welcome change from the usual, but the drunkard would not have been Yorick's first choice to spend the night with. The boat tilted uncomfortably in the rotund man's direction, making it difficult for Yorick's paddles to touch the water. Every time he laughed, which he often did, the Gravedigger's end of the boat would bounce awkwardly.

"Do you drink, Zombie?" Gragas asked, extending a mug of foaming beer to him. Yorick was baffled as to where he produced it from. He did not move to take it.

Yorick spoke in a drawl, still not comfortable with the Rabble Rouser's presence. "I _can _drink." Yorick paused in his rowing. "I choose not to," he decided, continuing on.

Gragas placed the mug on the floor of the rickety wooden boat, where the spirits guiding the boat kept the drink from spilling despite gravity's best efforts. Yorick almost wished that the boat would give up on the stupid magic stuff for just one night and let him paddle on in peace. "You'll come 'round," Gragas assured him as confidently as one can when their words slur together like a baby's. "They always come 'round to Ol' Graggy's Special Brew!" he winked in a jovial but completely repulsive manner at Yorick. If his spine was still intact, it would probably be shivering.

Now that Yorick had been gifted with the most unattractive facial expression he had ever seen, he took the opportunity to study his guest's face. Age had not been kind to the retired champion. Where there were once the uplifted, if not fat and bulbous, cheeks of a fighter, there were now the jutting cheek bones of an old man. More scars decorated his face and stomach that before, trophies from his many victories in the League. Had any of those victories been shared between the two of them? Yorick had trouble remembering.

The only remnant of "Ol' Graggy" in the League was a barrel with his name on it behind the Shopkeeper's desk. Yorick had also retired from the League; his dead body simply couldn't handle the beatings anymore. Summoner's would it back together only for it to fall apart the next time he got hit by a stray minion. It appeared that his only use now was as a taxi service. Yorick's mind snapped back on track.

There were two things that hadn't changed about Gragas: his vigorous drinking, and his voluminous beard. Though grayed, the hair still tumbled magnificently down from his chin in long locks. Yorick thought that, back when he still possessed the ability to do so, he might have liked to foster facial hair such as that. But there was no use entertaining these "what if" thoughts anymore, especially since the hair would have fallen out by then anyway.

"So," Gragas bellowed. "You do this type of thing often?" he inquired.

Yorick scoffed at his wording. "This type of thing," he repeated flatly. "This type of thing has become every aspect of my existence." He paused to let this completely cool line sink in. Was that still what cool people sounded like? Gragas laughed heartily, which did not sit well with the Gravedigger. "Are you amused, drunkard?" he asked angrily.

Gragas slapped his knee. "Seems like yer entire existence is purty boring, Zombie!" he yodelled.

Yorick grinded the few teeth left in his mouth. "The nerve you possess, old man..." Yorick cursed under his breath. His temper control had not improved over the several centuries he had been alive.

Gragas wiped a tear from his eye. "We're just havin' a good laugh!" he chuckled. "You need to lighten up." He nudged the mug towards Yorick with the tip of his boot.

Yorick regarded it carefully, and let the oars fall to the bottom of the boat. Which, of course, continued moving regardless. Yorick thumped the hull forcefully, and it came to a gradual stop. Afterwards it gave a sassy jerk to let its displeasure at the stop be known. The foam that had resulted settled down, and the moon's reflection appeared once again.

Employing extreme caution, Yorick reached down and picked up the mug between his rotting fingers. He cupped it carefully between his two hands and raised it slowly to his lips. Gragas put a hand out and stopped him. "That ain't how you drink a good beer!" he chastised angrily.

Yorick decided to counter back with a little fun of his own. "It's not how you drink a _good _beer," he stated sarcastically. Gragas burst out laughing, and Yorick even muttered a little bit of a chuckle. "Hue, hue, hue," he imitated one of his consorts.

A grin broke out wild across Gragas's now wrinkled face. "Lemme show you how it's done, Zombie!" He reached behind him and produced another mug with beer foaming over the edge. Yorick ceased wondering how he pulled it off. "Watch carefully, now!" his guest instructed.

"Right."

Gragas raised the mug above his head, and opened his mouth wider than any crocodile dared to dream. He tipped it back, and unleashed a waterfall of alcohol back into his throat, splashing onto the floor of the boat (where it was of course immediately cleaned up) and all over his beard and ratty shirt. "Didja take some notes, Zombie?" he asked after smacking his lips an appropriate amount of times.

Yorick didn't respond. He racked his brain, attempting to remember if he had drunken beer while he was alive. Of course he had, what grown man didn't drink beer? But he could not remember anything; not the tiniest morsel of information. Occasionally it would make him sad, but he would forget before too much longer. He would always forget.

"What are ya waiting for, down that sucker!" Gragas encouraged, punching a fist in the air.

Yorick slowly brought the beer up above his head as shown. As he was about to tip it back, the boat jerked forward. It was clearly outraged at being stalled for so long, and cut through the waves faster than before. The yellow lantern hanging from the front bounced up and down wildly, the flame inside threatening to be snuffed out. Yorick doubted that the spirits would allow that, though.

He quickly put a hand over the top of the mug to stop it from spilling. "Maybe later," he decided, replacing it on the floor. He looked over his shoulder. "Our destination is coming up."

The craft was engulfed by the mist, its tendrils wrapping around them and beckoning them closer to the beach. The spirits guiding the boat retreated back to where they came from, and Yorick let the tide carry them in. Once the Shadow Isles were in sight there was no turning back. Never any turning back. Had Yorick ever tried to turn back? He didn't remember.

Regardless, the boat landed on the beach and carried itself far enough that it would stick. Seashells crunched under it. How ironic that you would find beautiful seashells on the shore of the most cursed place in all of Valoran. "This is your stop." Yorick jerked his head toward the beach. "Embrace the inevitable," he advised as he did to all of his passengers. It was a fun trip while it lasted.

Gragas swung his leg on the outside of the boat, and kind of threw his body over with it. Nobody was giving points for grace. Yorick hadn't noticed it too much while they were sitting down, but now that his guest's back was turned it was easy to see the wound. It stretched from between his shoulder blades and wound all the way down his spine. Tissue and organs hung out awkwardly, as if strung from an invisible thread. The blood was caked in several layers all around his back. Tendrils of white mist curled off of his body, alerting Yorick that the process had begun.

The boat knew when it was time to go, and slowly began to withdraw itself from the beach. More seashells were crushed. Gragas had been standing in a stupor, staring wide-eyed at his surroundings. But as he saw the vessel pull away, he made a desperate run through the surf. His obese legs splashed water up all around him, only making it more difficult to maneuver. "YA CAN'T LEAVE ME HERE, ZOMBIE!" he screamed, spittle mixed with beer flying from his mouth.

Black, shadowy hands erupted from the water and grabbed at his ankles. Each one held a death grip on him, making Gragas fall face-first into the water. Rather, his body did. It only takes a few moments on the Shadow Isles for a spirit to completely divorce from its dead body. A dim outline of Gragas could be seen above the surface of the water for a dim moment. His shoulders sagged, and his head sagged forward in one final admittance of defeat. Karthus couldn't possibly complain when he came to collect this soul.

More and more hands appeared to drag Gragas's body beneath the surface, and would later deposit it somewhere for Yorick to bury it. As was the cycle that had gone on for centuries. Had it been centuries yet? Yorick didn't remember.

As the Shadow Isles retreated over the horizon, Yorick thought that he heard the tortured screams of an old drunkard flying across the water, but the flops of skin that passed for his ears could've been deceiving him. Did that happen a lot? Probably.

The beer still lay between his legs. Of course it was fake, just a trace of whatever drinks Gragas may have brewed during his life. Still though, Yorick raised the mug to his lips. While nothing actually entered his body, the taste still danced upon his tongue. Yorick was surprised that his taste buds were still functioning. He let the mug fade away in his hands as all traces of Gragas were erased from the boat.

"It's bitter," Yorick remarked.


End file.
